When I met a guy this weekend who actually owns a Ducati motorcycle, I knew it was time for more Frederick Seidel on Monday’s Verse. Seidel (b. 1936) is that well-educated New Yorker (by way of St. Louis) who writes about sex, wine, women, motorcycles, and sex. Here’s a pretty, rhymed lyric about none of those things. I think buried inside the is a fleeting thought about about working a limestone quarry on Robben Island for 27 years did to Nelson Mandela’s eyesight. -ed.
So the sun is shining blindingly but I can sort of see.
It’s like looking at Mandela’s moral beauty.
The dying leaves are sizzling on the trees
In a shirtsleeves summer breeze.
But daylight saving is over.
And gaveling the courtroom to order with a four-leaf clover
Is over. And it’s altogether November.
And the Pellegrino bubbles rise to the surface and dismember.